


Eating Plums on a Sunday

by butterflyslinky



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Poetry, plums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6825268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflyslinky/pseuds/butterflyslinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's supposed to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eating Plums on a Sunday

It’s supposed to help.

Not be a miracle cure, but help.

That’s what all his sources say.

Soft purple fruit.

It’s comically small in his hand.

Don’t squish it.

Don’t lose it.

He takes a bite.

 

_“Want one, Stevie?”_

Soft.

Sweet.

But slightly tangy.

It’s good.

It’s familiar.

 

_“Where’d you get these, Buck?”_

_“Old man Munsen was throwing them away.”_

_Hard blue eyes study him._

_“You didn’t steal ‘em?”_

_“Course not.”_

Another bite, smaller this time.

Make this last.

Don’t let the magic end too soon.

 

_Small bites, as though unsure._

_Then bigger bites at his grin._

_“Want another?”_

_“Sure, don’t want ‘em to go bad.”_

Juice drips on his fingers.

Juice runs down his chin.

Keep it away from the metal.

 

_Cold metal fire escape._

_Chilly breeze._

_Weak sunlight filtering through._

_“Don’t drip on your suit, Buck.”_

_“Mama will tan my hide if I do.”_

A third bite.

Teeth scraping a hard pit.

Hardness under tender flesh.

Bitterness under sweet.

Strong core under soft skin.

 

_Blue eyes deep with worry._

_Smiling mouth stained purple._

_White hands tossing a pit over the railing._

_“Thanks, Buck.”_

Last bite.

Metal hand crushes the pit.

Pieces fall to the ground.

Not so strong after all.

But somehow still there.

 

Help, not a miracle cure.

 

_“Have another, Stevie.”_

_“You don’t want one?”_

_“Had some on the way.”_

Another one.

Another bite of soft and sweet.

Another scrape on the core beneath.

Another breeze.

 

_“Again, Buck?”_

_“He gets new produce on Sundays.”_

_“Only got one suit.”_

_“So be careful._

Another one.

 

_“Can’t keep this up, Bucky.”_

Another…

 

_“It’s good for you, Steve.”_

Help, not a cure.

Bucky throws the last pit from the railing.

It hits a newspaper blowing by.

 

_“It's Sunday.”_

_“Plums on Sunday, Stevie, you know that.”_

He stands up to go buy more.

And maybe next time, Steve will eat them with him.


End file.
